Dugal McKinnon

Composer – Sound Artist – Researcher

Category: electroacoustic

Let x = [Binaural version] (IEM#9)

I’ve just uploaded a binaural version of Let x = (on Soundcloud) for icosahedral loudspeaker (ICO) and 24-channel loudspeaker hemisphere, composed while I was 2014 composer-in-residence at IEM (Graz, Austria). The binaural version combines recordings of the ICO, made using a Schoeps KFM 6 mic, with mix-downs from the 24-channel ambisonic audio. The result isn’t the same as hearing the piece in-situ – the verticality of the piece is lost and the degree of immersion is reduced – but it gives some sense of its spatiality and I hope also conveys the ICO’s spatialisation capabilities, which I described in an earlier post.

IEM Cube

IEM Cube

Just so you know what you’re listening to, the piece is:

In 5 sections, which alternate and combine use of the ICO and hemisphere: 1. ICO > hemisphere; 2. ICO, 3. Hemisphere; 4. ICO, 5. hemisphere, ICO/hemisphere > hemisphere. A wide range of tools were used in composing the work, but the most significant were certainly Matthias Kronlachner’s ambix and mcfx plug-in suites, which made the task of mixing and spatialising for both the ICO and the hemisphere wonderfully straightforward.

The first section of a larger work-in-progress based on the transformation of speech into sounding objects with carnal, cultural and environmental resonances. The texts are metaphors, in multiple languages, coupling the human body and the natural environment, aiming to dissolve “the barrier between ‘over here’ and ‘over there,’… the illusory boundary between ‘inside and outside’” (Timothy Morton). There’s more to read about my compositional intentions and materials, and my creative process, in an earlier posts.

Here’s the programme note (nice and concise):

Let x = (2014-)

Kaki Langit – Foot of the Sky

 “Flesh = Earth, Bone = Stone, Blood = Water, Eyes = Sun, Mind = Moon, Brain = Cloud, Head = Heaven, Breath = Wind” (Adams & Mallory, Encyclopedia of Indo-European Culture).

Another way of saying this kind of thing comes from Levi Bryant:

[E]cology must be rescued from green ecology, or that perspective that approaches it as a restricted domain of investigation, pertaining only to rain forests and coral reefs. Ecology is a name of being tout court. It signifies not nature, but relation. To think ecologically is to think beings in relation; regardless of whether that being be the puffer fish, economy, or a literary text. Everything is ecological. Above all, we must think culture and society as ecologies embedded in a broader ecology.


Let x = technology (IEM #6)

It has often struck me that while there is a plethora of information, particularly online, about how to use audio technology, it is very rare to see a composer talk about their use of technology towards creative outcomes. Why is this? A cynical interpretation is that there’s a kind of anxiety around technology-based creativity, driven by concern not to be regarded as a insufficiently technical composer, or perhaps by the fear that creativity involving technology is not “real” creativity (you feed something into the black box and it spits out the finished work). I completely reject the former, citing the work of composers such as John Cage and New Zealander Douglas Lilburn which, in very different ways, is not particularly sophisticated at a technical level but is quite singular in terms of its musical value. The latter is a (psuedo-)fallacy but does point to the reality that the work of electronic musicians, and particularly composers of electronic music, is very often determined – to greater and lesser extents – by the engineers of the tools they are working with.

To go down the fully deterministic route, one could argue that you simply wouldn’t have electronic dance music – with rigidly metronomic rhythms – without early sequencers (including drum machines). Early technology didn’t do “humanise”, it did 16-step (sometimes more) sequencing, with each step having precisely the same duration. At a certain point in musical history this was abhorrent, and then all of a sudden it was a style, entirely accepted as authentic music making. Put post-humanly, this means the musical machine afforded new ways not just of making music but also of hearing and understanding it (as celebrated in Kodwo Eshun’s afrofuturism paean More Brilliant than the Sun). In popular electronic music, a terribly vague but useful categorisation, this seems not to be a problem at all and in fact is integral to some of the many fleeting microgenres that Adam Harper celebrates (see his Fader article on the voice in the digital landscape).

By contrast, technological determinism, let alone technological influence, doesn’t go down at all well in electronic art music (EAM, another vague but useful category). I think here of Denis Smalley’s (1997) exhortations against technological listening and the purported sterility of music which does not feature qualities that are perceived on the human level of gesture and utterance. In EAM, much of which is made in a context attached to the tail end of Romanticism/Modernism (the difference is not so great), man masters machine and does so alone. But this old-school humanistic/anthropocentric approach is blind to the degree to which the composer is bound to the machine and to the engineer of that machine (digital or analogue). Another way to say this is that EAM is a collaborative practice, even when there’s just one person in the room. And yes of course there are many artists who are also architects of their own machines (Michael Norris and his Soundmagic Spectral VST plugins, for example) but yet the history of EAM is strewn with unacknowledged relationships between composers and the technicians/technologists who aided and abetted them (Sean Williams has researched the relationship between Karlheinz Stockhausen and the WDR studio technicians and technology, but I’ve yet to read his work). This does seem to be changing, and I’m looking forward to reading William’s chapter on King Tubby and Stockhausen’s use of analogue technology and the influence it had on their sound (the two are presumably considered independently, but what a fantastic pairing!). The notion that Stockhausen’s work has a sound is already an upsetter. Stockhausen made music, his music was sound, but did not have a sound (“the seductive, if abrasive, curves of [Studie II’s] mellow, noisy goodness“). Yes, it does, just like Barry Truax’s PODX era granular work has a sound, and many works in the era of early FFT have a sound, and countless late musique concrète composers sound like GRM-Tools, and my work has a sound which sometimes sounds like FFT and sometimes like GRM-Tools etc etc.

This has gone a little off-target, but it does support my initial point: composers, of EAM, don’t like to talk about how they do what they do. They’ll tell you what they used to do it, but not what they did with that it. Similarly, technologically adept artists will explain the tools they’ve developed, but not how these tools have been creatively applied. In either case this is a shame, as it limits the pace and depth at which the practice can evolve. If artists explain how they do what they do, other artists can learn from them, and apply a particular set of technicaI routines in their own ways. I don’t buy the argument that this might lead to a kind of technology-based plagiarism. There’s already enough sonic and aesthetic homogeneity in EAM. Opening up its creative-technological processes would, I imagine, lead to greater technical refinement and a wider creative palette, and – heaven forbid – perhaps even some criticism of aesthetic homogeneity where it is found. More than this, acknowledgement on the part of composers that they are using technology that has been designed and implemented by another human being might actually lead to establishing a stronger feedback loop between engineer and end-user. This is one of the real beauties of using the Ardour and Reaper DAW‘s – their design teams implement user feedback in an iterative design process – resulting in DAWs that are much much easier and friendlier to use than just about any other I can think of. It also strikes me that what I’m outlining is different to the kind of DIY/Open Source culture that makes contemporary software and electronic art cultures so strong. I’m not talking about how to make analogue and digital stuff, but rather how to make musical stuff with it (and if this requires that both the technology and its creative deployment be discussed, all the better).

It is of course a fair point that the artist might not want to spend their time explaining how they do what they do (there’s already too little time in which to do it), but I do think practitioners should open up their laptops and outline they ways in which they achieve certain creative outcomes. If this simply reveals that they ran a recording of dry kelp (being cracked and ripped) through GRM-Tools Shuffling and pushed the parameter faders around until they got a sound (a sound!) they liked, that would be a start. This is just what I did almost 20 years ago when I first started seriously trying to make EAM. What I still haven’t done is explain to myself, or anyone else, why this combination of sound, DSP and parameter settings, produced a result that made me feel there was musical value in what was coming out of the loudspeakers. The initial act may have been relatively simple (setting aside the design of the still wonderful GRM-Tools), but the process and outcomes are not. Untangling and explaining this, or indeed any (interesting) creative-technological method, could be a valuable and useful thing to do. So, this is a task I’m setting myself: in a future entry on this blog, hopefully the next one, I’ll attempt to dissect a particular technical method used in the composition of Let x = and also try to explain why the outcome of the process found musical application (i.e. had musical value to me in the context of the work-in-progress).

Icosahedral Loudspeaker: the ICO as instrument for electronic chamber music (IEM #5)

IEM‘s ICO is a 20-channel loudspeaker, developed by Franz Zotter at IEM. The ICO, and its smaller spherical cousin, was developed as a part of Zotter’s PhD research into sound radiation synthesis as a tool for replicating the acoustic radiation of instruments and measuring the acoustic response of rooms: “This work demonstrates a comprehensive methodology for capture, analysis, manipulation, and reproduction of spatial sound-radiation. As the challenge herein, acoustic events need to be captured and reproduced not only in one but in a preferably complete multiplicity of directions” (Zotter, 2009). The ICO was developed primarily as a technical tool but through collaborations between Zotter and composer / sound artist Gerriet Sharma it has found application as a creative tool, or indeed as an instrument. As Sharma and Zotter (2014) outline “[The ICO] is capable of providing a correct and powerful simulation of musical instruments in their lower registers in all their 360◦ directional transmission range. The device is also suitable for the application of new room acoustic measurements in which controllable directivity is used to obtain a refined spatial characterization.” It is this “controlled directivity” that has primarily found artistic application. The “beamforming algorithm developed in [Zotter’s PhD research] allows strongly focused sound beams to be projected
onto floors, ceilings, and walls… [This] allows to attenuate sounds [sic] from the ICO itself
while sounds from acoustic reflections can be emphasized. Beams are not only freely adjustable in terms of their radiation angle, also different ones can be blended, or their beam width can be increased. A loose idea behind employing such sound beams in music is to orchestrate reflecting surfaces, maybe yielding useful effects in the perceived impression.”

ICO 20-channel loudspeaker (IEM)

ICO 20-channel loudspeaker (IEM)

My work with the ICO, in combination with the IEM 24-channel hemisphere array, certainly confirmed that beam-forming can find artistic application, and indeed that the phenomena described by Zotter and Sharma are actual (hearing is believing). My exploration of the ICO’s propensities as a compact loudspeaker array are confirmed by small sample listener-response research presented in their 2014 paper. Using spatial controller plug-ins (VST) developed by Matthias Kronlachner it is mercifully trivial to shape and control acoustic beams in terms of perceived size, movement, and to use beam-forming to create reflections on surfaces within the performance space.

It is the latter that is perhaps the most surprising and lively aspect of the ICO (although there’s much to be said for the capabilities of the ICO as an acoustic surface, see below). To my ears this is because it requires one to fully engage with the rich interactions of source material, loudspeaker and room response in ways which one tends not to do when using the hemispherical array (or indeed any other multichannel approach). This is simply because in such arrays one is concerned with creating a virtual sound image/space and concern for the room acoustic tends to be limited to minimising its impact on the qualities of audio reproduction or reinforcement (in the case of live electronic music). Using the ICO as an instrument to “orchestrate reflecting surfaces” on the other hand, requires engagement with the acoustic properties of the performance space as an integral aspect of the creative process, and also an awareness of the specific capabilities of the ICO. The outcomes of this are interesting:

The (electroacoustic) work itself can no longer considered as independent of the space in which it is to be performed. In composing Let x = (2014-) for the ICO and hemisphere, for example, many of the compositional decision made in those sections of the work for the ICO alone were based on achieving results that may not be achievable in other spaces. (I hope I get the chance to find out!) When combining the ICO with the hemisphere this was not the case as the latter masks the acoustic response of the IEM Cube space, making such sections or passages more readily transposable to other spaces. One of the really exciting things about working with the ICO is that you are required to closely tune in to the interaction sound, space and movement, and often encounter results that are quite unexpected as the room response enacts spatial behaviours that could not be anticipated from the topology and morphology of source material projected from the ICO. The room itself is revealed as a sonic object integral to the work as a whole and this raises the very question of what it is to compose spatially.

When one uses the ICO to orchestrate space, or more accurately to orchestrate perceived relationships between sound and space (sound and space being interdependent), one is orchestrating for a specific space, creating a relatively high (but far from total) degree of site-specificity. In moving a work from one space to another, the piece needs then to be spatially recomposed in order to work in a new acoustic context. This is entirely possible, as Sharma wonderfully demonstrated in his Signale portrait concert (11 Nov 2104) in the György-Ligeti-Saal in MUMUTH, which featured works not originally composed for this space. The question arises though: what kind of work, using the ICO and focused on sound-space orchestration, is more readily adapted for effective outcomes in different spaces, and indeed are all spaces suitable for the ICO and such application? (I hope to return to this topic in a later post, including the ways in which the ICO can be used in sound installation work, as it has been by Martin Rumori.)

The ICO, despite its unique affordances, is characterised by a number of limitations. That these are noticeable is due to recognition of what the ICO is as a musical object, rather than a response to the false expectation that the ICO is some kind of super-loudspeaker, possessed of sonic superpowers. In fact, such limitations should lead one to consider the ICO as an instrument which, as is the case in effective use of any instrument, needs to be used in ways that exploit its strengths and are not compromised by its shortcomings (don’t ask a trumpet to do the rapid passage work of a flute, for example). Due to the driver size (16.5cm), the frequency response of the ICO is reduced below around 150Hz and the power of each individual speaker is also limited. These limitations can be overcome by coupling loudspeakers to create greater loudness and improve bass response (the typical solution is to feed low-pass signal below 150Hz to all 20 loudspeakers). However, these solutions have acoustic-spatial implications. Bass material, even in low-mid range, is clearly non-directional when an omni-source is created (as just described), which decouples this frequency range from directional beam-forming producing occasionally quite unusual spatial effects (which Sharma has exploited). Similarly, beam-forming is compromised when loudspeakers are coupled to increase loudness as the signal is spread over a larger area. Moreover, the icosahedron that houses the 20 loudspeakers is itself something of a resonating chamber which, although far from functioning like a resonator in a traditional instrument, has its own acoustic colour.

Beam-forming and sound-spatial orchestration are two of the strengths of the ICO, but I shouldn’t forget that the ICO packs a lot of loudspeakers into a relatively compact object. This comes right down to the possibility to address each loudspeaker individually, creating a very distinct point source. While I was surprised by what can be done in working with the ICO as a tool for creating acoustic reflections, I was equally pleased to hear it realise my ideas for enacting complex acoustic surfaces. Pontillistic textures skittering across its surface, sweeps of material oscillating between indirect and direct loudspeakers, clearly stratified layers of sound, and all emanating from a discrete spatial field. As I hope was evident in Let x = the ICO offers an abundance of spatial-compositional possibilities, even before using it to stimulate and shape room response or conjoining it with a more traditional array such as the IEM hemisphere.

Given the just outlined propensities and limitations of the ICO, it’s my feeling that not only should it be considered as an instrument, but more than this it is an instrument suited to chamber music. After all, in itself it is a chamber, a space which has a certain resonance which gives it the quality of enclosing sound as much as it projects sound. In other words, it has its own sound, it’s own sonic grain, as any instrument does. Through its frequency response and loudness it is best suited for small to medium size rooms, such as those in which chamber music is best heard, not so much because it cannot project sufficiently to be heard in large spaces but more because it requires listener proximity allowing perception of the detail it generates, both in itself and in the space it activates.

Guided by voices (IEM #4)

After having written below about the need to introduce constraints into the creative process, and then having fully immersed myself in the composition of the piece, what has become clear is that while it is useful to introduce pre-compositional constraints – establishing a work-concept that informs the creative process – these constraints themselves are only a scaffold which is eventually replaced by the more substantial constraints the work itself gradually establishes the further one moves inside this emergent territory. For example, in working with vocal material for the newly completed Let x = I had presumed that the heterogeneity of voice, the fact that it resonates at causal, semantic, and reduced levels (voice as voice, meaning and sound), could be accomodated in a single work. Certainly it can be and there are plenty of examples of works in which all these levels (and more) are operating simultaneously (one of my favourites remains John Young’s Sju), but in Let x = the constraint that the work itself introduced was a product of exploring the spatial sound environments afforded by IEM’s Ikosaeder (20-channel loudspeaker) and ambisonic hemisphere (24-channels), and the combination of these. In investigating what can be done with these spatially, it quickly became clear that the work was veering away from voice as speech (semantic), and voice as voice (causal) (aside from in a delimited but structurally significant way, i.e. as a means to mark key structural moments in the piece), and that in fact it needed to, wanted to, was going to, do so. The voice as sound, transformed but still vocalesque (voice-like), afforded enough sonic ambiguity and abstraction for sound materials to be utilised spatially without the histrionics of voices that behave like winged creatures or the schizophrenic effects of invisible conclaves, juries and choruses. The outcome is a work that, at least in my reckoning (I don’t need to be reminded that “the author is dead“), through which I manage to achieve one of the initial aims, but which also guided itself in a direction I had not anticipated. In the vocally tinged spatial atmospheres, textures and trajectories of Let x = there is a commingling of voice and environment which I feel fulfils my stated aims of  “the transformation of speech into objects resonating at embodied.. and environmental levels” and the dissolution of  “the barrier between ‘over here’ and ‘over there,’… the illusory boundary between ‘inside and outside’” (Tim Morton). Yet at the same time, the aim of deploying speech “as an ‘interface language’ between the kinaesthetic (nonverbal expression, including music, utterance, gesture and space) and the cenaesthetic (complex cognitive structures, including poetic language and the semantics of music)” has not really begun to be explored, simply because there is so little direct speech in the piece and when speech is heard it is in forms difficult to understand unless one is Indonesian (“Kaki langit,” the foot of the sky is the phrase that opens the piece) or capable of deciphering 6 languages at once (the closing moment of the piece simultaneously introduces the same phrase in English, German, Italian, Farsi, Bengali and Indonesian). Recognising that the piece guided itself is an important thing for me, not only because it recognises the extent to which things themselves have their own propensities and powers to which we are always having to respond (Graham Harman’s Guerrilla Metaphysics is good on this topic), but also because it means one can feel good about letting one’s own work-concept fall away and trust that engagement with the complex thing-in-itself (shadowy though its being is) will produce an object which is cohesive in its own ways, irrespective of how closely these match with the hypothetical thing it was intended to become. One of the other very satisfying aspects of this is that I can still attempt to compose the piece I thought I was composing, and by concentrating less on spatiality and more on semantics, perhaps a new work will emerge which “[deploys] speech “as an ‘interface language’ between the kinaesthetic… and the cenaesthetic”. Therefore the work itself is not finished. Let x =.


IEM residency begins (IEM #1)

This begins the documentation of my composer residency at the Institut für Elektronische Musik und Akustik (IEM) in Graz, Austria. While here I’ll be creating a new piece in collaboration with renowned vocalist Nicholas Isherwood. This will be realized firstly as an acousmatic work for icosahedral loudspeaker and ambisonic audio (in the IEM CUBE), which will then be adapted as a live work for vocalist, live electronics and ambisonic audio.

The core of the project is to find ways to use speech as an ‘interface language’ between the kinaesthetic (nonverbal expression, including music, utterance, and gesture) and the cenaesthetic (complex cognitive structures, such as poetic language and the semantic dimension of music), bringing these two cognitive dimensions together through the “decoding” of speech into “lower” level sonic forms, which resonate at embodied, cultural and environmental levels. The text for the piece uses metaphors, in multiple languages, that couple bodily, social and environmental imagery, aiming to “[dissolve] the barrier between ‘over here’ and ‘over there,’ and more fundamentally, the illusory boundary between ‘inside and outside’” (Morton, 25). The voice is of course central to this. As Stephen Connor puts it in Dumbstruck (3-4)

My voice comes from me first of all in a bodily sense. It is produced by means of my vocal apparatus… It is my voice I hear resonating in my head, amplified and modified by the bones of my skull, at the same time as I see and hear its effects upon the world… Giving voice is the process which simultaneously produces articulate sound, and produces myself, as a self- producing being… Listen, says a voice: some being is giving voice… [Voice] is me, it is my way of being me in my going out of myself.. My voice is not something I merely have… Rather it is something I do

What this means in practice, I’m not yet sure, but I am hugely excited about the project(s), for many reasons, not least of all that it affords me a chance to return to the combination of music and language, via the voice, an area I’ve not worked in for quite a while now. At the same time there’s a lot of learning to be done in terms of multichannel audio and composing for higher order ambisonics (thus far I’ve only had the opportunity to explore first order ambisonics). Along the way I’ll be attempting to keep a close record of the project, primarily in terms of its aesthetic and creative aspects.



Purity: Sine Tones and White Noise

Another slot on Radio NZ Concert’s Upbeat show, this one on the purity – actual and approximated – of sine tones and white noise.

Sine tones and white noise do not occur in nature, though are approximated in nature; rather these are technologically produced sounds, associated with technology (think early sci-fi films) and with early days of technologically produced music; typically signifying a sterile, Spock-esque realm of machines and pure rationality:

Stockhausen, Studie I (1953)

Elektronische Musik 1952–1960, Stockhausen Complete Edition CD 3, Stockhausen-Verlag

A dry form of musical discourse, redolent more of non-human than human world; as if we’re observing physical phenomena in some kind of abstracted form via scientific apparatus (which I find powerful in itself); yet as our lives become increasingly technologized, and filled with the sounds of technology, such forms of sound have become very familiar to us, as everyday sounds, rather than futuristic or other-wordly; evident in the real-world origin of the sounds used in the following piece, which becomes evident at the end of the piece:

Satoru Wono, “Overture” from Sonata For Sine Wave And White Noise (2003)

Sonore: SON 20

As sine tones, white noise, and a whole range of other synthetic/articifical sound become familiar to us, become part of our everyday lives, they come to carry a greater emotional charge which might be associated with the functional use of such sounds; for example, white noise as a technological breakdown (TV/radio static), sine tones as the signal of death from an old school heart monitor; that such sounds have meaningful in their own right, due to such contextual associations, means they do carry an emotional charge, and composers/musicians have become inclined to make use of this; such use is strong in the following piece, where white noise and sine tones set up a coldness which is used in juxtaposition to the warmth of sound and harmony of the piano material:

Ryuichi Sakamoto and Alva Noto, “pioneer IOO” from Summv (2011)

RastarNoton: r-n 132

The interaction between artificial purity and organic physicality in that piece is extended in the next piece, which demonstrates the complexity that emerges through physical interaction of a sine tone and the physical objects used to amplify it and feed it back into this system of objects; the results are rather beautiful and much more complex than the absolute simplicity of a sine tone, but again it is the interaction of the pure/artificial and complex/physical that creates this beauty

Alvin Lucier, The Wire: III”  from Music on a Long Thin Wire (1977)

Lovely Music: LCD 1011, 1992

Music on a Long Thin Wire is constructed as follows: the wire is extended across a large room, clamped to tables at both ends. The ends of the wire are connected to the loudspeaker terminals of a power amplifier placed under one of the tables. A sine wave oscillator is connected to the amplifier. A magnet straddles the wire at one end. Wooden bridges are inserted under the wire at both ends to which contact microphones are imbedded, routed to a stereo sound system. The microphones pick up the vibrations that the wire imparts to the bridges and are sent through the playback system. By varying the frequency and loudness of the oscillator, a rich variety of slides, frequency shifts, audible beats and other sonic phenomena may be produced”

Alvin Lucier, CD liner note for Music on a Long Thin Wire 

The Voice on Upbeat

Another show on sound-based music for Radio NZ Concert’s Upbeat show (to be aired sometime next week). The 20 min slot explores the voice as mediator of inside/outside, self/other, the act of making ourselves through sound – “My voice is not something I merely have… Rather it is something I do” (Stephen Connor, Dumbstruck: a cultural history of ventriloquism). The following works are featured:

Awkward Ecologies now online

My piece on the awkward ecologies of sound-based music is now available in eContact! 13.3 which “features a selection of articles presented at the 2010 Toronto Electroacoustic Symposium (TES) and further complementary articles addressing contemporary issues of performance, education and composition in the larger EA milieu, and is rounded out with interviews and chats with Canadian and international composers and performers.”


Silence and non-cochlear sound art

Jason Wright drew my attention to the sound installation work of Tristan Perich and Felix Hess. The two works below exemplify a non-cochlear sound art (Seth Kim-Cohen) and are mesmerising proof of sound’s status as the most “withdrawn” of phenomena, with silence as the apotheosis of this: “Silence is not merely negative; it is not the mere absence of speech. It is a positive, a complete world to itself” (Max Picard, in George M Foy’s  Zero Decibels). But clearly neither pole is replete, there is a necessary complicity between sound and silence – “Silence is the ‘other side’ of sound” (Don Ihde, Listening and Voice)

Felix Hess, It's in the air (1996)

Felix Hess’ It’s in the air must beg the question “is it?”. A silence which draws the auditor to the horizon of sound. “Tens of tiny paper vanes move with the imperceptible eddies of air pressure fluctuations in a space. Anecdotal evidence suggests that this installation can create both a heightened sense of hearing, or an awareness of complete silence.”

Tristan Perich’s Breathing Portraits (2005-2010) use sub-audible waveforms to drive naked speaker cones (we all know what these look like, but there’s a photo below) so as to visually represent the breathing patterns of the subjects of these portraits. Sound is cut from its source and reproduced, inaudibly but visibly, and out of this emerges the invisible life-force, the pneuma, that drives the loudspeakers in the first instance. The loudspeaker cone ceases to be the reproductive source of a spectral presence (the invisible source-cause) and becomes an uncanny thing, a hyperobject, the affective power of which derives from its ontological distribution across visible presence (moving loudspeaker cone) and audible absence (human breathing). This, to appropriate Steven Feld’s take on Gregory Bateson’s term, is a rare form of sonic schismogenesis and very beautiful it is too. [and what a shame I can’t embed video without paying for a WordPress video upgrade…]

Tristan Perich, Breathing Portraits – Chris and Tom

Notes towards a programme

Lilburn in the Victoria University EMS

Douglas Lilburn’s electronic music continues to fascinate. I’ve written about it in a number of (offline) contexts, and this Wednesday evening will be helping to present a concert marking the 10th anniversary of his death – 10 years ago today. Here follow notes towards programme notes for the electronic works in the concert, which explores the links between his lesser known piano works and the electronic work. Lilburn’s complete electronic works, by the way, are available as a box set from SOUNZ.

God Save (1972, 1:00). A familiar melody, transformed into wonky bagpipe filigree and, later, towards those birdlike forms so prevalent in the electronic work. It  is no doubt a republican snipe, not least given Lilburn’s focus on the “the discovery of our own [musical] identity” (Lilburn, 1946), and delivered with irreverent antipodean wit.

Five Toronto Pieces – Sings Harry (1963, 5:06). One of Lilburn’s earliest electronic works and it presages many of the features of his mature works in the electronic medium. There is a sparseness, a concern for inharmonic timbres (so characteristic of the technology of the day), a structure defined by refrain (song is never far away in Lilburn’s music), and the sudden opening of the texture into ebullient melody (birds and bagpipes again). Then at the end, somewhat unexpectedly, there is Lilburn, giving voice to a different reading of Denis Glover’s poem. This might be understood as Lilburn revising his own history which in 1963, as Lilburn embarked on a journey into the nascent electronic medium, was still largely defined by the success of the other Sings Harry (1954).

Soundscape with Lake and River (1979, 11:00). Without doubt Lilburn’s best known electronic work. It remains a singular statement, juxtaposing and overlaying field recordings made near Taupo with electronic textures that reflect and refract the natural world of New Zealand which Lilburn held to be key to his aural imagination. Aside from its sheer beauty, the reasons for the work’s significance are best articulated by Lilburn: “I think the last piece that I did [Soundscape with lake and river] really brought me full circle to what I’d been wanting to do all the time: take the natural sound of the river and lake at Taupo and weave it into the texture of the electronic sound and fuse them in some way.”

Triptych (1977, 11:00). This work presents something of summary of many of Lilburn’s signature sounds and techniques, and as ever bears relationship both to his instrumental work (melody always hovering close by) and his engagement with the natural world (birds around tangled horizons). To a contemporary ear, it has an appealing quirkiness and grittiness, which is one reason why these pieces grab the attention of those who are as interested in electronica as Elektronische Musik. More than this though, it is in soundworlds such as this that, as Frederick Page put it, ‘the strangeness, the remoteness, of our world, finds its sound’ (1970).